


The Wasteland in my Mind

by Eliniita



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Amnesiac Dick Grayson, Angst, Bat Family, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson is Robin, Drama, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Protective Bruce Wayne, Young Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliniita/pseuds/Eliniita
Summary: (Teen/Robin) Dick Grayson has been shot and is suffering from memory loss... Bruce Wayne tries to support his child through the trauma of amnesia. Will they be able to re-establish a relationship or will the tragedy tear them apart? Hmmmm... Inspired by Batman #55/Nightwing#50





	1. The Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Well, *Spoilers?* if you're following Nightwing's story, you know he still hasn't regained his memories. #Laaaaaame 
> 
> Which means I'm still annoyed. Haha, so now I'm taking it upon myself to write a satisfactory conclusions (for myself). I was just thinking about what it would have looked like if Dick had been shot/lost his memories while he was still Robin and living in the Manor. With all the drama and fluff I can manage.

"It's so quiet here...and I feel so cold...

This house no longer feels like home" -So Cold/Ben Cocks

'I don't remember' was Richard Grayson's one thought as his eyebrows furrowed, and he let out a frustrated sound that he didn't quite recognize. He had been standing right outside his bedroom for at least 5 minutes, but still, his legs refused to move.

It was strange, because while his mind was a wasteland, and he didn't remember anyone...his body was usually good at knowing where to take him, but now? Maybe the emptiness in him mind was spreading. He couldn't remember where he was supposed to be. That's the way it was now, sometimes he blinked, and didn't know where he was, or when... or who.*

"...Master Richard? Can I help you?"

Oh. There it was. The old man who looked at him with the saddest eyes. The young man couldn't stand it. It had been a few months since 'the incident'...that's what they called it, but Richard Grayson had no problem calling a spade a spade. He'd been shot in the skull. Pain. There had been so much pain; and then nothing. His entire life, all his memories... wiped clean. There was nothing he remembered. They'd tried to fill in the blanks of course. Grew up in the circus. Dead parents. Adopted by Bruce Wayne.

"...No, I'm alright Mr. Pennyworth."

The butler was giving him 'the look' again, the one that meant that he'd done something wrong, even though he hadn't meant to. Alfred was trying not to give it, of course, but 'Mr. Pennyworth' sounded so strange, so foreign coming from the teenager's mouth. It was the name that Richard Grayson had used in those first few days, when he'd been a small, terrified 8 year old boy...but that had been so long ago. It had been Alfred, or ' Alfie' for so long now, and while at first, the gentleman had frowned at the nickname, now he'd do anything to hear it again.

He'd do anything to see Dick's smile, to hear joyful steps bouncing down the stairs, and into his kitchen, asking for a snack, or trying to make himself something to eat and leaving the kitchen a mess, but it was impossible to be mad, because along with the chaos, came the smile of a carefree soul.

But now...there was this shell of the boy he loved. A shell that didn't smile, that didn't brighten rooms, that didn't exude jubilation...

He had to be careful, Leslie had warned them not to overwhelm the boy...not to pressure him. So, Alfred Pennyworth swallowed his feelings and remained neutral.

"Would you like a snack? Cucumber sandwiches, perchance?"

At the suggestion, the boy made a face. "...I'm not hungry."

They stayed there for a few awkward seconds, neither one knowing how to proceed, but Alfred, as the adult, gave him a reassuring smile.

"That's quite alright. Dinner will be in a couple of hours anyway...You may rest in your bedroom until then, or perhaps go outside and get some fresh air?" Alfred suggested, pointing toward the master staircase. The blue eyed boy frowned at the gesture, as if he couldn't remember where the stairs were? He wasn't an idiot!

"Yeah. Fresh air" He said curtly, practically running to the staircase, and then downstairs to the front door, not turning around to look at the man. He knew Alfred was watching him, watching with those sad, concerned eyes, and if he had to be subjected to them again, Richard Grayson was going to scream!

The boy walked around the Manor grounds for hours. He'd started out kicking his soccer ball around, and when that hadn't appeased his senses, he'd explored the large property, and then he'd gotten a little bit lost...but refusing to admit it, he'd just thrown himself on the grass to stare at the clouds. Maybe, somewhere, in the very back of his mind, he remembered something like watching clouds with someone, and trying to find figures.

Or it was just his mind playing tricks on him, he had no idea. Still, he laid there on his back, watching white fluff move eternally slow in the sky...

An elephant. He saw an elephant.

"...Hey chum"

At the sudden voice, the teenager jumped up, heart racing. When he realized it was just the man who wore suits and spent too much time at work, he visibly relaxed. He wanted to complain about the nickname. He hated it. He had told Bruce he hated it. He didn't want to be called that. They weren't friends.

"It's time for dinner" Bruce informed him gently, when he realized that the kid had no intention of saying hello, of running up to him to tell him about his day...

"I'm not hungry" The teenager responded, barely above a whisper, but with clear conviction. Two sets of blue eyes stared at each other for a few seconds, before Bruce finally shook his head and found his batman voice.

"We're waiting for you to have dinner. Go inside. Now"

At the sudden change in tone, Richard Grayson was at a loss for words. He resented the man. How dare he speak to him like that? This man... wasn't his father. That's what they had told him. They weren't 'chums', they weren't anything!

"...I'm not hungry"

"I didn't ask if you were hungry or not, Richard." Bruce glared, not wavering. Not when the kid glared back, not when his son huffed and stomped away. He was grateful that this hadn't turned into another screaming match. They'd fought more in the past few months then they ever had before, and more often than not, Bruce Wayne had no idea what he was doing. He was arguing with a young man who had been shot! Who had lost everything! He definitely felt like a fool, and a failure, especially when the frustration boiled over in to resentment.

It was never anger at Dick though, no, not really. There was rage at the beasts who had done this to his son, sure, but in the end...

In the end... the anger, the helplessness, the despair always landed at his feet.

It was all his fault.

To Be Continued...

*Nightwing #50

Please review for timely updates.

This will focus on Dick, and his journey.../Relationship with Bruce. But It'll also include the tragedies from "Heroes in Crisis". Just an FYI ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)

'You showed him all the best of you but I'm afraid your best wasn't good enough, and no he never wanted you, at least not the way you wanted yourself to be loved' -BoyceAvenue

 

Another evening. Another dinner. And always that feeling of being watched.

Dick took his spoon and twirled and twirled the contents of his soup. He wasn't hungry. He never was...How could he be, when he felt like a prisoner in this place? He didn't even feel safe to look up, because whenever his eyes met Bruce's it felt like the man was trying to read his thoughts. He stared at the soup once more before wondering if he was using the right spoon. There were way too many utensils.

"Richard, eat your food" Came the harsh 'request' that was common when Bruce was actually at the Manor for dinner. It was usually on Mondays and Sundays. The teenager stopped twirling the spoon, but didn't do much else. He didn't eat. He didn't raise his head to meet the man's eyes. He didn't want to exist anymore- not in the prison, anyway. He'd been thinking of running away for the past few days, but needed money.

Alfred and Bruce shared a look, one mixed with concern (mostly from Alfred) and frustration (mostly from Bruce). They had talked about letting the boy return to school, or perhaps let the titans (who had all been asking to see him...the ones that remained) take him out for a few hours, but the young man didn't really seem interested in any of that. They had thought having Barbara around might help, after all, the redheaded beauty had always mesmerized the boy wonder.

That hadn't gone as planned though, not when, after a walk around the manor, they'd returned, both with gloomy faces.

"...Please don't come back"Richard had told her softly, much to Alfred's horror, who had demanded the boy apologize immediately, and the raven haired boy had, he had apologized, but it was lacking all sincerely and conviction.

So, there they were. At dinner, and the boy knew for a fact that Alfred had shared the day's events with Bruce, because the man seemed more agitated and rigid than usual.

"I'm not hungry" The blue eyed boy finally braved to say, though he still wasn't looking up.

"Yes, well, quite frankly, Richard, I don't care. Eat. "

It wasn't a request; he knew it, and he knew that Bruce knew he knew it.

Fuck.

The teenager didn't really know how it happened, but his hand had curled up into a fist and he'd punched the bowl sideways and as gravity would have it, sent it flying to the floor.

Bruce had dragged him upstairs and shoved him in to his room, which was perfectly fine with the boy. He wasn't hungry.  
\--------------------------------------------

This girl was gorgeous. Donna Troy. She looked at him like he was the ghost of a memory of someone that she used to know, sure, but at least it didn't seem to overshadow her own grief. She was clearly going through something, something bigger than him, and so he found himself actually talking to her.

They were 'friends'...that's what she said, but her lip had quivered, and so he didn't ask for more information. Until her eyes filled with tears.

"I really need a drink" She admitted, taking off her heels and feeling the cold grass. She had wanted to get away, and had found Richard Grayson also trying to escape the dinner party at Wayne Manor. He had been laying down sleeping, and for an instant she thought he was Dick. She'd sat with him for some time, pretending it was a different time and place, but eventually he had woken up and looked at her with the dead, confused eyes of a stranger.

"Oh, here" He gave her the tequila bottle he had stolen from the kitchen, and they shared it in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't an awkward silence though, it just was. It was simple.

"I was supposed to be with you guys" She told him, quietly, full of regret and sadness. He knew the story. He had been shot. He had been shot while he and a couple of his fellow 'teen heroes' or whatever had been driving to join the Justice league. And maybe that's why he didn't want to remember, because his 'best friends' had died that day.

"I guess it's lucky that you weren't" He said absent-minded, because in fact, he had no idea who she really was. The things she could prevent.

"No, it wasn't lucky at all." She whispered, pulling her knees up to her face. She couldn't help him, not when the boy she had loved had died that day.

Dick nodded, though he didn't know why he was nodding.

"Life's shit?" He finally said, trying to comfort her, but the way her face twisted and she let out a sob that she'd been holding in, made him realize that he really, really sucked at comforting people.  
\-----------------------

Part of his punishment for Monday's dinner was to help clean up after the dinner party, which interestingly enough, he didn't mind. It was tedious, repetitive work, clean this, throw that away. He could function just wonderfully like that, with repetitive motions and being on the move so much that he didn't have to think.

Thinking was not his friend.

Memories, or what people wanted him to remember, just made him ache and long to be alone. He glared as Bruce Wayne walked over to him.

"You can go upstairs now" The man always told him what to do with a grimace. The teenager wondered if the man had other facial expressions. Could he smile? Dick certainly hadn't seen it.

"I'm fine."

"It's late, Chum"

The teenager glared, and Bruce also had to wonder if he'd ever see his son smile again.

"Don't call me that" He growled out, venom dripping from his voice, as as he saw his "father's" face twist into something ugly, he briefly wondered if he should be afraid.

"Richard. Go. To. Bed."

"Stop telling me what to do!"

Bruce grabbed his chin harshly, lifting his head so that their eyes could meet.

"You're not the only one that's suffering. You're not the only one that's having a hard time. You are NOT this person."

The boy pulled back harshly at that, what the hell was that supposed to mean?

"What person? I don't know who I am!"

"You're NOT selfish, Dick. So stop acting like you're the only person in the world." Bruce told him, firmly but softly, turned and walked away.

The youth just glared. He didn't know whether he was selfish or not, and he didn't enjoy being told what he was supposed to act like, and so, with fury on the mind, he went upstairs to look for a backpack. He wasn't going to stay.

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a million thanks to those of you that took time to review, or are just following this story. I appreciate it. I'm reeaallllyyyy going to try to update this in a timely manner, I'm just such a slooooow writer, apologies! I did try to make this chapter longer. :D
> 
> :) Also, sorry for any spelling/grammar errors, I'm a bit strange in that I can't read my stuff unless it's been like...2 weeks since I've written it. So, the first part of this chapter I wrote a couple of weeks ago, and then I re-read it and finished the chapter today, but I can't stand to read what I just wrote. Is that weird? Is anybody else weird like me? Aghh. LOL. Please Review.

"That night I put my youth in a casket, and buried it inside of me, that night I saw through all the magic, and now I'm a witness to the death of a hero" -Death of a hero/Alec Benjamin

He obviously hadn't though it through very well.

He had grabbed the first backpack that he'd seen (A medium sized black one) and had stuffed clothes inside (Two t-shirts, one pair of jeans, underwear, zero socks), some money, (The twenty dollar bill he'd found earlier in the week in one of his jackets), a pack of gum with two sticks left, and a water bottle (half full).

So there he was, sitting in the first diner he'd seen, cold and starving. The youth looked over his options and settled for the flapjacks and some milk, costing him around 9$, half his money, but he didn't think about it, just ate and looked out the window miserably. He had never felt so alone, so miserable, and if he was honest with himself, if he was really honest...he was scared.

The waitress came back around,and asked if he needed anything else; giving him a toothy smile. She wasn't old- maybe in her 30's, with blond stringy hair, and comfortable white shoes, he couldn't help but notice. It was like his brain was conditioned to notice everything, like how he was the only one in the diner with the exception of an elderly couple of the opposite side of his booth.

"I'm good...thanks"

She nodded and started to leave, but then turned around, obviously uncomfortable, but she couldn't help wanting to help the kid. He was obviously too young to be out so late, alone, probably 14 or 15, she thought, likely a runaway...

"You sure? You don't want anything else?"

"Uh...no"

"Yeah? What about some pie? On the house"

The boy looked up at her and smiled, not because he really wanted pie or anything, but because she was nice, and maybe that's what he had been missing in the big old dark Mansion. Real people, who from time to time were genuinely kind.

In the end, he'd taken his pie to go, and held the container in his hands, the warmth of the pie made him smile and walk with a bit more energy, and that remained true for at least 20 minutes, but then his step went back to reflecting how he really felt. Hesitant...

He didn't have a plan, or friends...

His mind drifted to thoughts of Donna, and he thought of Barbara...

but it's not like he knew how to contact them. He had left his phone on his bed, in fear that they'd track it to him, maybe he was giving Bruce too much credit, he hardly saw the man, and when they did see each other, they mostly just argued. Maybe the man would be happy to have him gone.

The whole thing was strange anyway, what kind of billionaire playboy, vigilante, whatever the hell he was, adopted a little 8 year old orphan? He was sure that if he could unlock his memories, he'd understand everything better, and maybe there would be good things that he could hold on to, but for now, all he felt was lonely, and angry, and unsure of his place in the world.

Unbeknownst to the youth, Bruce Wayne definitely cared that his son had gone missing in the middle of the night. . As soon as he'd realized that Dick had left the mansion, he'd checked the tracker injected in the boy's arm to see where he was at. Alfred had been the one to suggest that the man not pick him up as Batman and instead the butler had driven him, and advised him as they drove to the signal.

Bruce could feel his chest tighten as he saw Dick a few feet away, wearing a blue hoodie, jeans, his worn sneakers, and attempting to hitchhike.

"Richard John Grayson!" Bruce yelled as soon as Alfred stopped the car, and ran to the teenager, who had just been about to get in to somebody's car.

"What are you doing?!" He yelled, momentarily terrified at seeing his son about to drive off with a complete stranger.

"What are YOU doing here?" Dick responded, equally indignant. Bruce ignored the woman in the car, who truthfully, didn't look dangerous, but looks could be deceiving. He grabbed Dick's arm and yanked him back, not speaking at all, but rather dragging him towards the car, and throwing him in the back seat. In Dick's defense, he didn't fight it, he'd just try again when he had more resources, he decided, and refused to admit that there was a tiny part of him that was relieved.

The ride home was a silent one, though Bruce had told him to go to his room and that he'd be up to talk to him. Dick rolled his eyes and went upstairs, catching a glimpse of Alfred on the way. The man was giving him a strange look that the boy refused to acknowledge, but somewhere in the depths of his mind, he felt a sort of calming feeling. It was like his brain was telling him that he didn't have to be afraid.

He had changed in to sweatpants and had ditched the hoodie. Part of him just wanted to lay down and sleep, but Bruce had made it clear that he wanted to talk, and the young man didn't know what to expect, which kept him alert and ready to bolt.

Dick still didn't know Bruce, or at least, didn't remember knowing him. The man wasn't exactly comforting, or happy, he knew that much. They argued about stupid things, like, really stupid things, probably because there was this resentment that Dick felt, and he wasn't sure where it came from. After 20 minutes, he had started to let his mind wander to other things, like all the books on his desk. He hadn't really touched anything.

When the door opened, the teenager didn't look up, though he could hear Bruce walked over slowly and sitting on the gray armchair next to Dick's bed, and making him back away closer to the wall.

"...That can't happen again." Was the dry, opening comment, and Dick said nothing.

"Alfred and I had hoped that by giving you some freedoms, you would be able to find yourself..."

Richard Grayson frowned and glared, his blue eyes losing all kindness, and it was hard for Bruce to keep looking at him, but he did.

"but obviously that hasn't helped, so things are going to change." He paused, knowing that surely his son had something to say. Dick always had something to say...

"You're going to be starting school. When you're not in school, you'll be with me in the office, when I'm...out, you'll be with Alfred, and no, not in your room while he wonders how you're doing, I mean you're going to BE with him. If he's in the kitchen, you're in the kitchen helping him. If he's outside, you're outside. Do you understand?"

He got a roll of the eyes as a response, and he could feel his body tensing.

"Richard. Grayson. Do. You. Understand?"

...

Dick sighed loudly, in annoyance and frustration, but otherwise said nothing. Bruce had never understood how Dick could talk and talk- about anything, and everything. There had been nights when he'd desperately wanted to sleep, but his son had wanted to talk about what had happened at school, and if he could start patrolling soon, and whether anyone in the world liked black licorice, and why people made bad choices, and on and on...and still, bright and early he'd jump up with the sun and want to talk some more.

There had been times when the man had wanted to cover Dick's mouth and enjoy complete silence...but now...

Fuck.

The silence was appalling.

"We'll talk more in the morning." He gritted out, and left the room as fast as possible, because he hated being around the shell of the boy that was his son.

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RandomLOL: Does anyone read Batman Beyond? I don't keep up w/ it, but I read a few issues surrounding the new Robin and a visit from Dick...and there's a scene where Dick is arguing w/Bruce (Of course) 
> 
> And he's talking about how Robins always get hurt (Thanks Joker...) but then he mentions getting shot in the head, and Freaking. Old. Man. Bruce is just like;
> 
> "You were Nightwing when that happened." Really Bruce? REALLY?
> 
> LOL.


End file.
